


Exsanguination

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Fright Night (2011), We Need to Talk About Kevin - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Character Turned Into Vampire, Consensual Underage Sex, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Murder, Philosophy, Prostate Milking, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 02:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16109042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: A lot of vampires get broody in middle age, and Jerry isn't an exception; however, being newly mated does bring some obvious advantages.





	Exsanguination

**Author's Note:**

> Gradence thirst led me straight here. I make no excuses.

There are some questions, some supreme mysteries, that philosophers have wasted their entire lives trying to answer, and despite having the advantage of almost three hundred and seventy years, Jerry’s no closer to working out the riddle either.

God. Love. Evil. All pieces of a puzzle, flames in the same fire that’s beautiful and hypnotic to look at, until you allow yourself to lean too close and singe your flesh.

God was fairly easy to pin down; once you confirm the presence of Satan and all his infernal princes - and sign off on becoming one yourself - it’s not too much of a stretch to assume that there’s an opposite side to the coin. Besides, holy water stings like a motherfucker.

Love - that one’s trickier. Lust is certainly a reality - Jerry would starve otherwise - and so is attachment, a human longing for a static world, with, just maybe, a little selfishness sprinkled over the top. But love, the real romantic life or death stuff that Shakespeare wrote about (nice guy, refreshingly earthy off the clock) well, if he’d been asked ten years ago Jerry might have passed that off as so much horseshit, but along had come some startling new evidence… that choice of words was only effective the first few times it popped up in those courtroom dramas he’d gotten into, back in the most recent sixties, but like everything else it lost it’s allure… startling new evidence…

Egyptian cotton tangles under his shoulders as he stretches luxuriously, stubbing out a cigarette on the ashtray before lighting another - a bad habit he got sucked into back in 1947, but maybe the risk of going up in a cloud of charr is what makes it so fun - and rolling on his back like a cobra, sunning on a rock. As close to one as he’ll ever get, anyway.

A cute little purr hums from somewhere near his shoulder before Kevin crawls over his chest, all sleepy eyes and petal soft skin, and nuzzles his jaw demandingly.

“Gimme.”

Jerry indulges himself and keeps his eyes open as their lips seal together, sharing the smoke and the gentle buzz, until his baby seems to have had his fill and snuggles down against his chest, mouthing at a nipple aimlessly. Feathery eyelashes brush his skin.  

He sucks in another drag, silently extolling quiet pleasures.

Where’d he leave off? Oh yeah.

Evil.

Supposedly it’s kind of innate, built in like skin color and blood type, but most of Them agree it’s something that’s nurtured once you’ve got the gift - like treating an infected wound by searing it with a white hot knife. 

Jerry might have done his fair share of racking Jesuits once upon a time, but that was work. Kevin’s got no such excuse, and it’s kind of adorable sometimes, the way his pretty lips quirk whenever he pulls another fucking mind game with some poor old hag after he’s methodically cut her cat to pieces. Or cooed soothingly to a little boy once his parents are spilling their intestines all over the family room. Or kissed the tearful bride amid the tangled wreckage of a white limousine, twirling a tin can on one finger.

Some might say it’s bad manners to play with your food, but his baby’s lifted it up to an art form - so really, what’s to complain about? Satan had special plans for this one, stepped in with his own blueprints at the exact moment of conception, and for that Jerry might abandon several centuries of agnosticism and begin sacrificing white lambs at a black altar.

Kevin’s gaze flashes up from under a sweet, messy tangle of dark hair, that cupid whore look that’s landed so many fat, balding creeps into the middle of a nightmare. Sharp little incisors are dragging delicately across Jerry’s chest, not quite breaking the skin yet - his baby’s cute little tell, that he’s squirmy and wants to fuck.

He glances at the chronometer on the back wall, and yeah, they’ve got time before breakfast. Those two door to door evangelists tied up in the pantry aren’t going anywhere.

He crushes the cigarette butt to dust, before rolling over and cradling his darling, who gives a mildly surprised squeak - 

Maybe one day he’ll find the key, unlock the meaning of it all - isn’t that what you’re meant to do with immortality? - but until then, and more than likely after, he’ll just have to live life one sundown at a time like all the other pathetic bags of blood and pus that wander around, wondering what the point is, so why not enjoy it - 

Kevin always feels so tiny in his arms, just like the first time; most of them make a lot of irritating noises before the endorphins take over and shut them up, but he’d smiled smugly and hooked his legs around Jerry’s firm thighs like things hadn’t just taken a turn into hell demon territory, and they were still playing at seduction. They’d kept right on playing, straight into a happy ending as the kids called it these days. Afterward, lying in a far from figurative puddle on the kitchen floor, Kevin had toyed with him in detached curiosity, murmured things about himself that would have chilled the blood of anyone who still had something resembling a conscience, and Jerry idly considered that it might be worth keeping this one above ground for a while.

Days became months, then nearly a decade, and somehow Kevin never finds himself walled up in wet concrete. Jerry finally admits to himself that he’s acquired a sweetheart, a pet, a baby, and enters a happily domestic new phase of after-life. 

Occasionally a neighbor or two gets it into their head that fathers and sons don’t or shouldn’t behave how they do, and make pests of themselves with threats of police and social workers, but they’re pretty easily dealt with. Call it a candlelight dinner.

The Traditionalists - the type that still believe it’s rude not to stop and count things - tend to object to the term “baby.” Seem to think it’s undignified. They prefer “childe” of all things, but at least they’re not as bad as the Snobs, who always cringe as if they’re in physical pain when he actually uses the word, and suggest strongly that he at least - he still can’t believe it - use French pronunciation. Death was supposed to loosen you up, but if anything the preconceptions just make everyone uptight - as if living life to the fullest wasn’t stressful enough, now they have to enjoy Death correctly too. 

Baby is the only word for Kevin, the only thing that fits his petulant brattiness and soft, biteable flesh - all of fifteen forever. The Others can shove their talons up their vice-tight asses and grumble all they want about “renaissance men.” 

Maybe it’s simpler. Maybe, Jerry reflects while he strokes Kevin’s soft mouth, pushing him down until he’s dangling off the mattress, head, neck, and shoulders, maybe they’re just plain  _ jealous. _

He always tries to make the first bite coincide with penetration; he’s romantic like that. Kevin mewls, white thighs in a wide open sprawl, as if that’ll help relieve the intensity (it never does, but isn’t he cute to keep hoping?) 

A few mouthfuls are good enough to start with, just to sharpen the edge, and Jerry allows himself a few more rolling thrusts, relishing the sensation a moment or two longer before pulling out and tugging his sweetheart back into their nest of insanely expensive bedsheets.

Some of the Traditionalists claim this is taking things too far, that the bite is more than enough. Self-denying prudes.

The venom only takes seconds to work it’s way into the system, and by the time Jerry slithers down between his legs Kevin’s already throbbing-hard and dripping pearly fluid all over his smooth belly. Jerry smirks, his tongue playing over the tip of one sharp tooth, and tickles a fingernail just at the edge of his baby’s sweet little gape.

Kevin’s hips jump and squirm, looking frantically for someplace to run, the desperation increasing once three fingers are twisting inside him and abusing that tender, tiny spot like a toy - a shriek cuts through the moans and whimpers thickening the air when teeth sink almost precisely an inch into the flesh of his thigh, opening up his widest veins like a tapped keg, and maybe Jerry ought to consider moving the bedroom downstairs, baby gets kinda noisy when he’s excited - 

Slim-fingered hands grab his shoulders suddenly, flipping him on his back with inhuman speed before Kevin straddles his hips and splits himself open with a single, merciless shove. Black-eyed and hissing, Jerry slashes a claw across his own breastbone. Little fangs lock around the seeping wound almost immediately, a thick, eager purr rumbling up from Kevin’s stretched throat, and the sight is too much of a temptation, too much tight, white skin; Jerry’s teeth are buried deep in seconds. 

Some people have theorized about the taste, why They find it so appealing - deprived housewives mainly, and soccer moms - but their flowery ideas of chocolate and rose petals and thick salty sweet are only so much shit. It’s not the blood, not a cluster of rather unappetizing-looking red cells suspended in yellowish fluid - it’s the taking that’s important, taking someone inside you and making them your own and linking yourselves closer than any hot, wet connecting bodies can possibly manage… although that last certainly has it’s attractive points. 

They cling to each other, rolling wildly in the sheets, snarling around every mouthful, hands grasping and squeezing wherever they can reach, until Jerry manages to pin Kevin to the mattress, trapping both wrists in one massive grip. His throat’s bleeding, streaking red across the white fabric underneath them with his every wriggle and eager snap of his teeth while he’s held down and made to take a steady, hard fucking, forced to mate, breed…

A few teasing fingertips on the underside of his dick bring Kevin off in moments, and while he’s shivering at the height of a climax Jerry rams himself good and deep, twisting a reflexive sob out of his baby’s trembling chest and swallowing every noise as their lips lock and tongues tangle, smeared with sticky, salty red. 

“Not gonna be greedy this time?” he croons later, one thumb still petting affectionately inside Kevin’s opening. 

A little pink tongue clicks against his shrinking teeth, every inch of his slim, uncoiled body a picture of contented sloth, but experience and scent don’t lie - he’ll probably be humping Jerry’s thigh in a few hours. The young ones are always the same, a little drunk on their newfound abilities, a little power-mad, and horny as puppies. 

“I thought you might need a break.” his lamb smirks nastily, that cruel little twist of his lips that had first drawn Jerry’s interest - coupled of course with that sickly stench of innocent, uncorrupted wickedness. It’s a bit like candied almonds.

He lunges forward suddenly, and buries his mouth against Kevin’s groin, sucking in a few deep breaths while the boy coos, the swollen bite on his thigh still oozing a steady trickle of reddish-pink... 

The samaritans in the cells are screaming again, briefly drawing Jerry’s attention as he weighs the risk of complacency if they’re left waiting too long (overcooking, he calls it) with the merits of torturing Kevin’s Lucifer-given sass out of his skin for another night or two, and just maybe some questions are easier to answer than others.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
